Hidden Answers
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Grissom and Sara travel to San Diego where they receive a different kind of welcome from what happened in "Immortality". Nick shows up. A mystery develops.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: A new story, several months after the final sail into the sunset. We appreciate hearing from readers!_

 **Hidden Answers**

 **Chapter 1**

It was not raining at the moment but the night was filled with a vast uproar of noise of wind and waves that the absence of water falling from the sky was nearly unnoticeable to the man whipped by the storm.

In the usually protected marina, the tide had rolled in, breaking into a confusion of foam and spray. Out in the ocean, there were white caps everywhere. The horizon was dark, disappearing into equally dark water. Docks were beaten by breakers that struck, rose, fell and withdrew, leaving the platforms glinting with pools of water for a few moments before returning in hissing assaults. Boats bucked and rolled even with extra fenders and secure lines.

A weather prediction of fast moving rain had turned into an hours-long gale of high winds, massive waves, and heavy rain and showed no sign of lessening.

Gil Grissom hunched and hurried along the dock in a shambling run, nearly bent double with his load. Reaching his boat, he quickly added two more fenders between boat and dock, adjusted spring lines once again before swinging himself onto the boat. Quickly surveying the deck, checking that everything was tied down or stowed away, he opened the door to the cabin and slammed it shut, sliding the bolt into its lock. Hanging his water slicked jacket over a bucket and removing his boots before he climbed down to the forward berth, he smelled popcorn. Even with the boat securely docked, the wind and crash of waves rocked the boat making him grab for handholds in the small space.

"No wet clothes in bed!"

Laughing, he sat on the bed and stripped off his socks and pants. "It's a gale out there—should pass soon," he said as he dropped a damp sock to the floor; pants followed in a heap. His hand searched under covers for the body belonging to the voice. "You sure you're okay?"

He found a shoulder as dark eyes appeared; then a hand, an arm as his wife shoved covers aside and sat up, a bowl of popcorn held with one arm.

In the soft light of the cabin, with a raging storm pummeling the boat, she took his breath, made him momentarily speechless. Yet his mind raced; raced back to a time he'd thought all was lost, remained there for a few seconds before returning to the present. He grinned.

Her hand reached for his hair, ruffling fingers through it as she said, "It's rough out there—this boat has been like a roller coaster." Pulling his face to hers, she gave him a quick popcorn-tasting kiss and asked, "Did you get another fender?"

"Two—should be enough and everything is tied down." Grissom pulled his legs into bed, his feet seeking warmth. "Weather is unusual—where's your phone? Can you check weather? This system was supposed to pass quickly."

For several minutes, as Sara pulled up current weather conditions, Grissom snuggled into a warm space, hands finding the familiar curves of the woman in bed with him. His head found a favorite resting place as Sara held her phone making little noises as she used her thumb to scroll.

He ate popcorn, waiting for her weather report.

Finally, holding the phone so he could see the screen, she said, "This system has stalled—right on top of us." She groaned, saying, "Two inches of rain. It's—it's like a hurricane."

For several minutes, they listened to a voice giving details of a tropical storm combining with a system moving from the north resulting in the growing monster storm beating against the boat. Reports of flooded roads and fallen trees followed; no marine update.

Suddenly, the phone blinked and 'no service' flashed on the screen.

Sara shrugged, placing the phone in a small compartment beside the bed.

Grissom found the place for his head against her chest. "You sure you are okay? Don't feel seasick?"

Her fingers raked through his hair as she kissed the top of his head. "I'm fine—how are you? How many have you ridden out?"

With a voice muffled by popcorn, he answered, "Several. Once off the coast of Alaska—I thought the boat and I were headed for Davy Jones' locker. Not that Davy Jones was ever near Alaska but that night…" he laughed. "Lots worse than this."

As the boat rolled, Sara scooted into bed, placing the nearly empty bowl in a shelf beneath the bed before pulling covers over both of them. Softly, she giggled as his hand caressed her belly, crossed her hip, and found her back as he pulled her closer.

"Was anyone in the office?"

He knew why she asked and said, "Only the evening manager. He said he'd sent Joey home—wherever that is—several hours ago."

Joey was a young dock hand who, from what they had observed, took care of dock lines and ropes. He didn't talk. He rarely made eye contact with anyone and, from appearances, seemed to be simple minded. He did not assist with docking and launching of boats, he didn't use water hoses or haul supplies; he rolled ropes at the docks

"You don't think he's deaf?" She asked.

Grissom shook his head, saying, "I think he can hear—he doesn't know American sign language—I've tried several times when he was rolling up rope."

"What did he do?"

"Wouldn't look at me for one thing. He made some sounds—grunting but no words. Pointed at the office."

"I wonder where he lives. I've been here—three times now—and he's always here. So he must be capable of riding the bus or someone picks him up."

"Someone is taking care of him—his clothes are clean. He appears to be fed."

Sara said, "It's just odd for a boy—he's not a boy—he's in his thirties, I'd say—for a young man not to talk—not to say words of some kind."

"Well," Grissom said, his voice softened by speaking against her chest, "he's—he's developmentally disabled—and sometimes that affects a person's ability to form words. I think."

"Most everyone ignores him and he goes around rolling ropes."

"He seems to have a sense of purpose with what he does." He moved is face so they were facing one another. The only light source was rain softened marina lights. His hand cradled her face; his thumb moved gently across her cheek as he said, "He's been here for several years."

Sara kissed his nose and then they kissed each other, properly.

"Can you sleep?" He asked between several quick kisses. "We have a big day tomorrow."

Laughing, Sara nodded, thinking it might take her a while, but she'd sleep. She reached for the switch for the overhead light, saying, "It's your big day. Instead of being arrested, you're going to speak to the harbor patrol and San Diego law enforcement about shark fin smuggling." She wiggled into a comfortable position, laughing again. "What a difference a few months makes."

Grissom's laughter joined hers. "More ways than one, I'd say."

Outside, waves heaved and broke. Diagonal rain struck the boat with a continuous torrent but tucked into a warm, dry bed, wrapped together, the two slept.

In absolute darkness, a tremendous racket woke them; Sara heard someone calling Grissom's name along with—she realized—banging on the boat above their bed. Grissom groaned, finally coming awake and reaching for the light switch.

"What is going on?" He said as he got out of bed, quickly grabbing for a handhold as the boat rolled.

"Must be this storm," Sara said as she pulled on pants before getting out of bed.

Grissom found the pants he'd tossed to the floor and, after putting them on, he climbed the ladder to the upper cabin. Sara was behind him. By the time Grissom flipped on the boat's lights and unlocked the door, she could see a shadowy figure wearing a dark rain jacket standing—holding onto the dock. Bright reflective letters, familiar to anyone who had worked in law enforcement, were visible even in the torrential rain.

Almost at the same instant, they recognized the voice.

"Nick?"

Grissom pushed the door open. Rain hit his face as he yelled, "Nick!"

The force of the gale was greater, pushing Grissom back even as he held the door open. Nick's flashlight caught their startled faces in the slanting downpour.

Yelling over the storm, he said, "Storm's getting worse! I couldn't get either of you to answer your phones—so I came to get you!"

It took a minute for Grissom to pull on his rain jacket, exit the cabin in bare feet, and extend his hand to Nick. "Come aboard," he yelled into the turbulence of wind and water.

The boat was rolling so viciously that Nick finally tossed his flashlight to Grissom, grabbed the rail with both hands and jumped. A stumbling sprawl and slide on the wet deck got him near the door where Sara was able to grasp his hand and help him inside.

Even with rain jackets, both men were soaking wet. All three were reaching for something to hold on to as the weather assaulted the boat in another rolling pitch.

Greetings were quick as Nick already knew of their arrival in San Diego. He said, "I tried calling but when you didn't answer—I knew I'd need to come—beg you to get off this boat and come to my place! Disasters everywhere—streets flooded, trees down—a couple of cell towers are down; everything has turned into an emergency."

When Grissom started to object, Nick added, "This storm isn't going away—another twelve to fifteen hours before it moves off—and—and our conference starts this afternoon." Pausing for a minute, he looked from Sara to Grissom, back to Sara. "Say you'll come, Sara." He grinned, saying, "If you come, he'll come."

An hour later, Nick's truck pulled into a multi-level parking garage with Sara and Grissom sitting beside him, their duffle stowed behind the seat.

"I'm going to get you inside then head over to the lab. It's a quiet condo—get some sleep and food in the 'frig that's yours to eat."

In the shuffle to get out of the truck, Grissom reached for the duffle, struggling to get it free as Nick got out and Sara scooted over to the driver's side to climb out.

Nick turned, extended his hand to Sara as her legs swung to the paved surface and turned to get her bag. He was talking, saying nothing important as he took her arm. Her rain jacket opened; her shirt was damp, clinging in places. He had known her for years—his eyes traveled from her face downward as she slipped the strap of her bag over her head and across her chest. A glance—two seconds—that's all it took.

A realization hit him so suddenly that he stopped speaking. His mouth dropped open as he stared. Nick had often read the phrase 'a pregnant pause' in novels. This seemed to be one.

 _A/N: Let us know what you think! More coming..._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you for_ reading!

 **Hidden Answers**

 **Chapter 2**

Sara Sidle had known Nick Stokes for nearly two decades; his face in surprise tickled her to no end so she stood and laughed as his chin dropped and his eyes widened.

By the time Nick recovered, Grissom had rounded the truck to see the younger man standing in wide-eyed, speechless astonishment. He knew immediately what had occurred when Nick's eyes met his; laughing, Grissom nodded.

Nick said, "After all this time—you two are having a kid! Wonders never cease to amaze me." Shaking his head, he reached out to Sara. "Girl! Why didn't you tell me? Am I not the best bud you have?"

"We wanted to see you," Sara said as an explanation as she smoothed her hand over a slight bulge under her shirt.

Throwing his head back in a laugh, Nick said, "This way—and I have more questions! Due date? Any problems? Do you know what you're having—boy or girl? Are you going to live on that—that floating barge of a boat?"

Grissom and Sara laughed. She said, "This is a true story straight from science-fiction, Nick—and when you have time, you'll get the extraordinary story of how I—at age 45—ended up in 'the family way'." She pushed her hand into the crook of his arm as they headed to the elevator.

Their conversation took fourteen turns in four minutes before Nick opened the door to a modern one-level condo, all floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall; the constant sound of pouring rain dulled by layers of glass overlooking a cityscape washed by the ongoing storm.

His earlier statement of going to work seemed to be forgotten as Nick opened doors to a well-furnished guest bedroom and bathroom before going into the kitchen where he began to make tea while keeping a running dialogue going about the storm, the seminar, his job, and occasionally, coming to a complete stop to look at Sara and grin.

Tea was in cups and the Grissoms were seated on tall stools before he raised eyebrows, saying, "Okay, tell me the story." After a soft chuckle, he added, "Greg and I had given up any hope of being uncles to a sweet baby Sara." Glancing at Grissom, he said, "Well, either one, but I'm partial for girls." His head turned from one to the other as if pulled by opposing hands.

Smiling at him, Sara pointed to her husband. "You want to start?"

He shook his head, giving a finger motion for her to go ahead.

"Well, I'll cut it short—otherwise, it will take hours and I'd love to get back to sleep in that nice bed you've got!" Dipping a spoon into her cup of tea, she stirred for a few moments. "The beginning was when we didn't—I couldn't—get pregnant. Then I did—but didn't last long."

When Nick's face expressed his concern, she hurried to say, "This was years ago—one of the reasons I returned to Vegas but—but everything we did for—for two years got us nothing. So—we—sort of moved on—and—and…" she stumbled over a few words.

"I left her in Vegas," Grissom said quietly.

"I know about that," Nick added. Quickly, he grinned, "But then you two got back together—finally!"

Grissom smiled and reached for Sara's hand. "We did."

With a soft laugh, Sara said, "It did not take long for both of us to realize—and admit we'd like to have kids—which put us in one of the top fertility clinics in the world in LA. And that's where everything got kicked into high gear."

Grissom broke in with, "High gear at warp speed. After IVF plus genetic screening—a fascinating process—we have a little..." He grinned and opened his hand to Sara for her to finish.

"We're having a," she paused just to keep Nick waiting for a full minute, "girl in about five months."

Nick gave an excited "whoop", did a little shuffling dance, saying, "This makes my day—no, it makes my entire outlook on life brighter! You and Grissom having a little girl! Makes me want to live a long long time!" He sucked in a breath, releasing it slowly. "A baby! Don't tell me you are staying on that boat!"

"Oh, no," Grissom said. "We've got my mother's place in Venice Beach."

Nick's eyebrows lifted at this revelation.

"My mother had several surprises—she kept the place that she'd bought when they were trying to fill in the canals. It was run down, wasting away and then the entire area got a new life, increased in value. She had several other rental properties—places she'd purchased years ago—in the same neighborhood."

Chuckling, Nick joked, "Now, you are the landlord?"

Shaking his head, Grissom said, "We don't want to be landlords—I sold one to buy the boat. And we've put two others on the market—going to update and renovate the one my mother lived in before she moved to Vegas."

"And you are having a baby girl!" Nick's voice still held a note of excited uncertainty. "I know why you waited—not sure I'd believed it otherwise. Does Catherine know? Does Greg?"

Both Grissom and Sara shook their heads. "We haven't seen them yet," Sara said, adding, "So keep it quiet—we want to see their faces."

Straightening to his full height, Nick said, "I do have to go to work. Make yourselves at home—eat what's here. Fruit, juice, plenty of coffee, milk, cereal—all the healthy stuff is here." Walking around the counter, he hugged Sara and shook Grissom's hand. He said, "Stay here until you are ready to leave San Diego. As you expect, I'm not here much and with this weather, I cannot imagine what's going to come along but I will be there to hear your—you address wildlife smuggling."

Within minutes, he left the condo.

Grissom walked to the windows, watching as gale winds ripped leaves from trees, blew trash cans into streets, shredded flags and awnings, tore at anything that wasn't securely fastened down. Sheets of rain poured down the windows. Sara came to his side; instinctively, he pulled her into an embrace.

Softly, he said, "You make it sound like we took separate flights to get where we are now." His face nuzzled into her hair.

She teased, saying, "Long flights to Mars." With a quiet laugh, she said, "I can sleep—keep me company for a while. A non-moving bed and rain on the windows—the perfect combination, I think."

He agreed with her request, fairly certain he would not sleep. However, he had not considered that his wife's declaration about sleep would include a prelude.

Years ago, she had claimed he taught her that the act of love was meant to last longer than a song on the radio. As she opened his shirt, running long fingers across his chest, he sought her touch, desired her tenderness; weeks ago, realizing that pregnancy had added an unexpected aspect, he had questioned her obstetrician about having sex.

They had been enlightened to the point that Sara gave in to uncontrolled giggles as the physician's explanation became somewhat long-winded. The doctor had bitten her bottom lip, finally laughing with Sara. Her words had been "Have all the sex you feel like having—it's healthy in more ways than not."

His own interest in sex was abiding and deep, and, for years, stealthily incognito. Well aware of how many men flaunted and bragged of their desires and conquests, he had not. That is—until a certain young woman, much too young for him to take seriously, had gotten his attention at a conference in San Francisco.

As she took his hand, he asked, "Nick's house?" Physically, he did not want to go in the directions of his thoughts.

Sara's laughter of rolling giggles seemed to bring a rush of heat to his groin. Her eyes rolled as she said, "He has a washer and a dryer, dear. And—he's right. He'll be gone for hours."

Any worry on his part proved groundless when she walked out of the bathroom completely naked, skin glowing, hair damp. He responded in a direct, no-nonsense manner; he removed his clothes.

With familiar fluid motions, he led her to bed, laid her down, and proceeded with grace and certainty to bring his wife to her initial orgasm. When her second climax occurred, he was so deeply involved, all he remembered were the sounds of the ocean, an explosive groaning, an exhalation of pleasure that put him in satisfied ecstasy.

Much later, when Sara fell back to sleep, she dreamed of an ocean of white-capped waves, sunny skies, and sleek dolphins while the storm swept on. A man, losing his footing while running in the storm, drowned as water rushed across a well-marked public trail. Several dozen people were pulled from flooded cars. More victims would be found later. Wind and rain caused power outages all over the city but not in the building where she slept.

A/N: _Yes, that 'pregnant pause' comment was appropriate! Thank you for reading-we appreciate hearing from everyone!_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Thanks so much for reading and your comments!**_

 **Hidden Answers**

 **Chapter 3**

The storm passed and the day was one of blinding brightness. By the time Sara got out of bed, the sun was well on its way to noon; the cerulean sky was clear of clouds, and she was alone.

In the kitchen, she found an empty coffee cup and crumbs from a toasted bagel and a note from her husband telling her he'd gone to check on the boat. She found a carton of yogurt and wandered to the windows where she knew there would be evidence of the storm, but not from her viewpoint overlooking a freshly washed unobstructed view that extended to a well-known local beach. She could see pools of water forming as the tide receded and the always present surfers bobbing on sparkling points of waves.

A few minutes later, she managed to figure out which control to use for television and found a local news update showing videos of toppled trees and power lines, flooded vehicles and stores but nothing on damage to boats or marinas.

After a shower, with her mind still on the storm, she found a short message on her phone to call her husband. Expecting to hear news of damage to the boat, she was surprised when he answered with his name, abruptly, then saying:

"Hold on a minute."

She waited, hearing several other muted voices before he returned.

"Sorry, honey." He said, "The boat's fine. Some damage at the marina, mostly to boats that weren't secured. I'm headed back but the harbor master came by and told me the boy who doesn't talk—Joey—died in the night."

She could tell from his voice that he was troubled—or saddened.

"What happened?" Sara asked, thinking of an accident during the storm.

"It's—it seems to be confusing but apparently, he died at home."

"It wasn't because of the storm? An accident?"

A long silence followed and then Grissom said, "I'll be there in ten-fifteen minutes. Do you need anything?"

She knew he had not answered her question but let it go; instead answering, "I don't need anything. See you soon."

When he walked into the condo, Sara knew he was worried; when they hugged, she asked, "What's up?" Her fingers touched his face, tracing along his brow to his cheek. "The boy?"

"Yeah. He—what the harbor master heard—he overdosed." He kept his arms around her as he said, "He—he was always at the marina. I've been coming in for years and he was always messing with ropes—he was awkward at first but got to the point of being really good at it." Shaking his head, he continued, "I—I didn't notice him other than to know he was there—and that he didn't talk."

Sara sighed. "Most people probably didn't notice him—look at us—referring to him as a boy when he was a young man!"

"And an overdose. It must have been accidental." Remembering the young man, Grissom said, "He had these awkward gestures, an odd, constant movement of his head that—that made me think he had other problems."

"It could happen—with the storm, perhaps—his parents—or whoever helps him was delayed or got off schedule." It bothered Sara that he was visibly upset. She said, "Nick can find out more information, I'm sure." Kissing his cheek, she added, "I'll talk to him after your seminar."

Grissom's presentation was one of the most popular topics of the conference; the large room was filled to capacity leaving Sara and Nick to stand near the back. Afterwards, they left Grissom answering questions.

Nick chuckled, saying, "He's got a panel discussion tomorrow—I bet there will be even more people for that."

"Is it really that," she shrugged, trying to find the right word, "that popular? Do people want to get involved?"

Nodding, he said, "Most of us think we can make a difference on some of this smuggling—just need to learn what we can. Who these people are—how they operate—and how to get to the end source; Grissom knows a lot of this." He shot her a glance before asking, "Is he going to continue with this—chasing smugglers?"

Sara shook her head. "We've not done that for months—so much environmental work to be done that we don't have to chase smugglers and poachers." She laughed. "But we can report suspicious activity should we notice it while counting sea turtles!"

As they wandered away from the crush of people, Sara, explaining what she knew of Joey's death, asked. "Do you think you could find out if it was an overdose? What the coroner finds? We don't know anything about him—other than he didn't talk. I—I guess we want to know if there is someone who cared about him—what happened to him."

A brief smile and Nick said, "Grissom was always rooting for the underdog—years ago, we had a case that involved a young man with Down Syndrome found in a tool box. Started out with fire ants as I remember." He nodded, adding, "I'll call and see what I can learn about this Joey. I think he was brought in this morning but nothing suspicious at the time."

Pulling his phone out, he pressed a number and a few minutes later was asking questions and responding with a few words. Occasionally, he glanced at Sara and after several minutes, he snapped the phone back in its case.

"That was one of the coroner's assistants. The guy's name was Joseph Aaron, age thirty-four. A woman identifying herself as his mother called the morgue saying her son had overdosed on sleeping meds and he died—that he was 'cold to her touch'. Last night, with the storm going on, the guys at the morgue sent a van out and then called EMTs when they got there; said he'd been dead for several hours. No law enforcement was involved—unusual but last night was a mess. Coroner thinks it could be a suicide."

"Suicide?" Sara's surprise was obvious. "He—he was…" she had to search for an appropriate term. "He was developmental delayed—didn't talk. Coiled dock ropes for a job." She had no idea why this should exclude the possibility of suicide, but it did. "How did he overdose?"

"Pills—sleeping pills, a lot of them—emptied the bottle. Went to sleep and at some time, he vomited. Well, you know what happened."

"Thanks, Nick. It's so sad. I don't suppose there was any way to tell if he could hear? Or talk?"

Again, his phone was in his hand as he sent a text message. He said, "It won't hurt to ask—and as soon as lab tests are complete, I'll let you read the report."

Sara thanked him again just as she spotted her husband coming in their direction. After they congratulated him on his successful presentation, she said, "Let's eat dinner. I'm starving."

Quickly, they decided on a local Italian café where Sara could get cheese instead of chicken or beef or pork.

Nick, addressing Grissom, asked, "Doesn't she need animal protein? You know—for the bambino?"

Sara snickered and gave him a jab with her elbow.

Grissom laughed. "Not going there, buddy!"

Putting herself between the two men, Sara hooked an arm with Nick's and wrapped the other around her husband's waist. "For your information, Mr. Stokes, vegetarians give birth to healthy babies every day."

Nick looked at the woman he'd known for years; she radiated good health. Smiling as he patted her hand, he thought she was more beautiful than she had ever been.

Afterwards, Nick left them and, as they returned to the condo, Sara told Grissom about Joey's death.

"I think I'll send a note—no, maybe I'll get his address and visit his mother," Grissom said.

With compassion in her voice, Sara agreed, "I'm sure his—his mother would appreciate knowing that someone remembers him."

As they walked back to Nick's condo, Grissom told her of the first time he'd see Joey. "He always seemed to be concentrating on something—no expression on his face—intense looking. He'd coil the dock lines and pat the rope over and over and, at first, I thought his gait was due to the floating docks, but it wasn't. Just a lack of coordination—and then his silence—but that was later."

Sara leaned against his arm. She thought she knew why the death of this young man had affected her husband. He had always had an affinity, empathy for those who did not fit in with society's norms.

"I'll go with you."

His arm tightened around her shoulders as his lips touched her ear. He whispered, "I do love you, dear."

 _A/N: Again, thank you. We'd appreciate hearing from you! Thanks to M who leaves messages as a "guest"!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: A new chapter! Thank you for reading! Take a second to send comments! We'd appreciate hearing from you!_

 **Hidden Answers**

 **Chapter 4**

The death of the man who did not talk caught the attention of more than the Grissoms. By some instinct of working in law enforcement, several people expressed reservations—one or two were outright skeptical about the reported cause of death.

When Sara asked for the address of the young man, giving Nick the reason, he immediately offered to pick them up for the ride to the home. He took one of the detectives along.

After a few turns, they arrived at an address less than a block from Balboa Park where small houses routinely sold for a million dollar. Nick stopped at one painted a sage green; a white picket fence along the sidewalk almost disappeared under massive twining vines. It was a beautiful, craftsman-style dwelling.

Nick led the way to the covered porch and rang a doorbell, waited a full minute and rang it again. After what seemed a long time, they heard footsteps. A few minutes later, a women with a cloud of too-red hair cracked the door open.

"Who are you?" She asked.

Nick introduced himself and the others, giving the impression that Sara and Grissom worked with him, politely adding his condolences for the death of her son. Then, he said, "Mrs. Burns, we need some information about your son."

Sara tried to find resemblance to a young man she'd seen a few times but found none in the overly-make-up covered face.

The woman asked, harshly, "About what?"

Sara glanced at Grissom, watching him as he studied the woman's face. Looking at the woman again, she realized there was no emotion in her face or in her words but grief could cause that.

Nick, his voice remaining calm, said, "In any death unattended by EMTs or other medical personnel, we need to ask a few questions."

Opening the door, the woman stepped forward and stood in the doorway, repeating, "About what? What do you want?" Her voice was devoid of interest; Nick could have been selling magazines door-to-door.

A second time, Nick expressed condolences, asking if she needed assistance or if he could contact anyone on her behalf.

She looked at him, seemingly unaware of the others, appearing to let his words play around in her brain to understand what he meant. It took some time for her to respond; Sara tried to estimate her age but the red hair and unlined face made it difficult. Clear blue eyes, well-defined cheekbones, and a straight nose taken from a Greek god did not appear to be the work of a surgeon but evidence that she might have been a beauty at one time. And when her head tilted downward, Sara caught a fleeting glimpse of the dead man.

The silence went on for so long that Nick asked, "Would you like to see Joey?"

At the mention of the name, the woman's face jerked upward. She took a half-step backward and held up a well-manicured hand, a gesture meaning she wanted to hear no more. Her lips pinched together in a straight line; a second passed before she stepped back into the house and closed the door.

In the few seconds that passed before she closed the door, the four standing on the porch had seen the changes on the woman's face. Not grief, not drugs pushing emotions away, but a look of revulsion.

Nick, eyebrows raised in surprise, looked at Grissom; both men looked at Sara.

The young detective said, "Well, that's strange."

Grissom shrugged his shoulders, reached over and knocked on the door. He said, "Everyone reacts differently to tragedy." He knocked again.

For several minutes they stood on the porch, waiting.

Finally, the door opened again. The red-haired woman said, "Joey died because he took to many sleeping pills. The pills were his—those men took the bottle. He's dead—I guess he got tired of being different." Her arms crossed her chest. "He never had good sense."

The only word to describe her tone would be belligerent, Sara thought.

Nick, even more polite than previously, calmly said, "Mrs. Burns, we need to ask some questions and check his room. Any time there is a suicide…" He let his words trail off as she opened the door; a loud huff came from her.

The four fell into line behind her, observing the neat, well-decorated and colorful living room as they crossed into a hallway. A glimpse of a kitchen—recently remodeled when compared to the age of the house—and passed three closed doors before she opened one.

"Here's where he stayed," she said. "He liked things simple." She stepped aside so they could enter.

Compared to what they had seen in the rest of the house, this room had the appearance of a jail cell with pale beige paint on walls and worn tiles on the floor. Nothing new, nothing bright or colorful was in the room. A small bed, completely stripped of coverings, took up most of the floor space. Underneath the one small window was an old big box television; a chest with three drawers was next to it. The walls were empty; no curtain covered the window, no rug on the tile floor.

Grissom managed to glance out of the window at a wall less than three feet away. A storage building, he thought. Nick gave a slight nod in his direction and Grissom said, "You've cleaned the room."

The woman, standing in the doorway, arms back across her chest, said, "I did—it was a mess. It smelled—threw most of the junk away. He was a pack rat." When no one said anything, she added, "I'm going to turn this room into a nice closet."

The lack of grief, of any emotion expected of a parent, caused the four people in the room to turn as one to the mother of the dead man.

Recovering first, Nick said, "There's some paperwork you will need to complete and—and someone will have to identify him. Usually a family member but it doesn't have to be if you have someone else who knew him."

Defensive again, she said, "What paperwork? Why? I told those who picked him up who he was!"

"It's required," Nick answered.

Backing away from the doorway, Mrs. Burns said, "I'll do it—just tell me where to go."

Nick pulled out a card, handing it to her, as he said, "And if you can bring his information—social security number, birth certificate, place of employment—someone can handle notices and death certificates you'll need." He did not mention the never-ending chase from place to place arranging a funeral, cancelling any kind of assistance received, that occurred after a death.

Another look, one that stretched her face into severe lines, settled on her face. She said, "He doesn't have any papers—no welfare. Do I look like a person on welfare?"

Nick was shaking his head in apology as she continued, "Joey got by with what we had—no need for welfare."

"Okay—okay," Nick said, holding his hand in her direction, attempting to placate her seemingly short fuse. "You'll come down and fill out the paperwork—if you have his social security number and birth certificate—things go faster."

Her voice still harsh, she asked, "What else do you want?"

After a round of subtle signals, no one said anything. Nick thanked the woman and they all headed to the front door.

Walking slowly, Sara took time to look in the kitchen which was clean and orderly, high-end appliances and pricey counter-tops. The dining and living rooms were expensively furnished. On a glass-topped cabinet, a group of multicolored figurines sat in sunlight giving the appearance each one contained a glowing light.

By the time they reached the sidewalk, the door closed firmly behind them, the detective was tapping his phone.

Sara said, "Expensive things in that house and Joey lived in a ten by ten foot room that she's turning into a closet. Those porcelain figures are expensive—and she had her son living in a—a room fitted for a cloistered monk."

"With a view of the garden shed," Grissom said.

The detective looked up from his phone. "Trash is collected on this street between four and six tomorrow morning."

They grinned; no warrant needed for trash collection.

Nick said, "She's acting strange, no doubt. Something's not right…" He shrugged, "Like she's not his mother?"

"You think she stole him? As a baby?" This came from Sara.

The detective said, "Maybe raising someone else's child."

"There was a resemblance," Grissom added.

At that moment, Nick's phone beeped. Pitching his keys to the detective, he answered his phone, listening more than talking as all of them got into his vehicle.

A few minutes later, he turned to Sara and Grissom who were sitting in the rear seat. He said, "This just gets more weird—that was the coroner's office. According to the secretary there, they can find no record—nothing—to indicate Joey—or Joe or Joseph Burns is a resident at this address or even in San Diego. And his estimated age," his eyebrows lifted, "early forties."

"His mother—she doesn't appear to be—to be sixty. I'd say she's in her early fifties." Sara jerked a thumb in the direction of the house.

While the detective drove, Sara, Grissom, and Nick went over scenarios that might be possible for the instant anger shown by Mrs. Burns, for her lack of emotion, and the obvious disparity in the bedroom and the rest of the house.

"What are you doing for a couple of days, Sara?" asked Nick before they arrived at the lab.

"Living in your condo!"

After a chuckle, he said, "How about I give you a contract for two or three days of consulting—and you look into this guy's death. I think there is something there—just doesn't sit right with me."

The detective spoke, "Does that mean she gets to go on the trash run with me?"

Nick managed to bite back his laugh.

Grissom was unable to hide his laugh, quickly saying, "I'd be happy to help out—as an observer." He laughed again, saying, "I know how good you are on a trash run."

Sara poked a finger into his rib, laughing. She said, "That woman's trash can't be as bad as some in Vegas—and what can be really nasty in such a short time?" When none of the men said anything, she added, "Right?"

A/N: _Don't forget-leave a comment, a few words! Thanks!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thank you for reading! Enjoy!_

 **Hidden Answers**

 **Chapter 5**

Sara and Grissom did not know the young detective who had been with them when they went to Joey Hunt's home, but when he picked them up at two in the morning with large cups of coffee, they knew he was a person meant to be a friend. It did not take long for the three to find conversation topics that continued, easily and unhurried, as they waited near Balboa Park for the trash truck.

Trash runs did not differ significantly from one city to another; San Diego was several rungs above Vegas by having a dedicated truck for law enforcement use in picking up trash. So Sara, Grissom, and the detective, Michael Martin, watched and waited as a truck moved along the street. Stopping, the truck extended its lift to one trash bin, dumped it, and then extended another lift for the recycle bin. The driver moved to the second set of bins, emptied them, and did the same to a third pair.

They had decided to take trash from neighboring houses in case the red-haired Mrs. Burns had used bins other than her own; unlikely, but, as Nick had pointed out, how many times had evidence been found in several trash cans set along the curb.

The neighborhood was quiet, houses dark in the early hours of the morning; not even a dog barked as the truck shifted gears and moved along the street.

They followed the truck to a garage near the crime lab building where emptying took several minutes and before Sara reached the pile of bags and debris, Nick was waving as the driver exited the building.

Six others, including two recently hired young women, arrived; one handing out paper jumpsuits to everyone, several arranging tables, while Nick, Detective Martin, and Grissom separated trash bags from recycled items. As this was not yet a designated official investigation, everyone was working 'off-the-clock' to sift trash, except for Sara who had a recently signed consulting contract with the San Diego crime lab.

Plastic bags of trash, paper bags of recycled waste, cans, plastic, Styrofoam, glass, and clothing were hauled onto tarps and tables. When one of the young women opened one of the bags, a stench assaulted noses.

"Dead animal," someone muttered.

The young woman said, "A cat" as she separated a furry animal tangled in several layers of plastic from trash. A few seconds later, she added, "It still has its tags—and a wire around its neck! Someone killed the cat!"

A murmured stillness settled within the group as trash bags were opened on one side of the garage and several recycled items were pulled to the other. They divided into twos and threes examining what they found while Nick kept a running commentary of encouraging comments.

No one knew what they were looking for—anything suspicious, anything out of place—yet they kept looking for that one thing to indicate the man who did not speak might not have committed suicide with sleeping pills. They found six faded tee-shirts, several pairs of pants, balled up socks, two pairs of shoes, pajamas and underwear, toiletry items, an old ball, two faded, worn stuffed animals, a handful of plastic toy army men, a tangle of yellow rope. Thread-bare bed sheets, stained by vomit, were wrapped in newspapers. Two empty bleach bottles and three empty spray cleanser bottles were stuffed into one bag among old dirty towels and rags.

"She threw everything away that belonged to Joey," Sara said as she opened up a box. Pulling out a small plastic box, she turned to Grissom. "He wasn't deaf." She held a clock radio in her hand.

Grissom said, "Let me plug it in."

A minute later, music came from the small speaker. He said, "He wasn't deaf." As he stood by the radio, Grissom asked, "Do we know she's his mother?"

"She said she was," Nick answered. "But I'll check." He tapped his phone. "If he was born in California, we'll know in a few minutes."

They went back to their search raking through spoiled food and packaging, crumbled tissues, newspapers, pieces of clothing—common household trash except for the pile of discarded clothing that had belonged to the dead man.

"She killed the cat!"

With this exclamation, everyone turned toward the woman who had found the dead cat.

"I checked the registration tags—the cat was garroted—wire is still around its neck!" She was holding up the small metal tags that every pet owner was familiar with. "The registered owner is Roberta Burns! She killed the cat!"

A full minute passed before someone said, "She's guilty of strangling a cat; she'd do anything."

Expecting no answer, someone asked, "Why would she kill the cat?"

The pace of the search increased.

Ten minutes later, Nick's phone dinged with a message; after reading it, he said, "Roberta Burns is recorded as birth mother to Joseph Powers Burns. She was fourteen; father is recorded as 'Joe Smith'."

One of the older men said, "In San Diego?"

"Yep." Nick said, frowning for a moment at his phone screen. "Forty-two years ago. Fourteen—having a baby with special needs…"

"Do we know he was actually special needs?" One of the young women asked. "The radio indicates he could hear—so—so what does that mean? Have we checked with state social services to see if he was in any programs?"

Nick shook his head, "Sifting trash—hoping to make a case for a case." He glanced at a large round clock hanging on a wall. "It's nearly time to—to eat—sun is up and the food truck arrives in thirty minutes."

Everyone seemed surprised to notice the sun was brightening the high windows of the garage. With all the garbage they'd handled, as a group, they moved near an outside door and removed the paper jumpsuits, shoe covers, and plastic gloves they had been wearing; then stood quietly in line to wash up at a sink by the door.

Sara was surprised at her response to the mention of food; it has been hours since she had finished her coffee and hours longer since she'd eaten. Intent on searching through trash, she had forgotten food but now she was overcome with true hunger.

The food was surprisingly delicious—and healthy; whole-grain muffins and bagels, fresh fruit, a variety of yogurt cups and smoothies as well as breakfast bowls filled with eggs, potatoes, and meat. The women ordered smoothies and muffins and fruit and moved to an outside table; every man ordered some variation of a breakfast bowl and then brought their steak-sausage-smelling meal to the same table. When the women laughed, the men looked confused.

As the group ate, they talked about the case—that was not yet a case, each bringing up a scenario that might explain the life and death of a non-verbal man. Nick and Detective Martin talked about the absence of emotion shown by Roberta Burns.

"And the house," Grissom said. "It's an expensive one—I know nothing about decorating a house but I do know about renovating one." He shook his head, "That house—except for Joey's room—has been expensively renovated—recently. How'd she pay for that?"

Nick sighed, saying, "We don't even know what she does for a living."

After eating, taking bathroom breaks, and dressing in new paper jumpsuits, everyone picked up where they had stopped. Paper, plastic, and cans had been separated; recycling appeared to be correctly done by residents of the neighborhood. No pizza boxes were mixed with recycled items, glass bottles had been rinsed. Clean recyclable trash bragged Detective Martin.

"This looks like a pill bottle," one of the men said, holding up a brown plastic container. "No label."

Another one chimed in, "Lots of people remove labels before throwing pill bottles away."

Nick hurried over and dropped the bottle into a bag he labeled.

Another hour passed before Sara, bent over a clump of wadded papers, reached for tweezers, pulling a small crumpled bit of paper from the pile. Taking great care, she unfolded the paper as a smile formed on her face.

Grissom, watching her, asked, "What have you got there?"

Biting back her smile, she used one gloved finger to spread the prescription label flat. Looking up, she said, "Roberta Burns has a prescription for zolpidem—thirty ten milligram tablets dated two weeks ago."

"Joey's prescription was the same," Nick said. Looking over Sara's shoulder, he added, "Different pharmacy."

"She's used thirty in two weeks?" Sara said, her face twisting in a doubtful look.

He studied the label before saying, "Two empty bottles of prescribed sleeping medication—let's say she was reckless and left the bottles available for her son to get. Why leave one at his bedside and hide—throw out the other?"

Everyone had gathered around the table where Sara had placed the label.

Detective Martin said, "I think it'll go—even if she was careless—the sheriff will approve a case." He looked at Sara, asking, "How many days does that contract give us to figure this out?"

 _A/N: More questions than answers...more soon!_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks for reading._

 **Hidden Answers**

 **Chapter 6**

A short time later, Nick and Detective Martin returned with a case number and a plan.

"What we've found—the pill bottle and the label—are going to the lab," Nick said. "And the computer guys are on it now—looking into Roberta Burns and her son, Joey—banking, credit cards, passports, vehicles, where they've live, where they go to doctors, where they buy groceries. Everyone leaves a paper trail." He paused and waved a hand at everyone in the area, adding, "So we go home, sleep, eat, come back in a few hours."

None had to be urged to go; they removed the disposable jumpsuits, leaving tables and tarps covered with the sorted trash and garbage. Grissom had several hours before heading back to the conference and the round-table discussion.

"Enough time for a shower, a nap, and food," he said as Nick offered a car or a driver. "We'll take a driver—I can walk to the conference."

Back at Nick's condo, Sara made two sandwiches, hot tea for her husband, and poured milk into a glass for herself while Grissom showered. They ate together and talked about Joey.

"Why would she be so—so dispassionate about her son? It's not as if she kept him locked in the attic—he's been working at the marina." Sara said as she cleaned crumbs from her fingers. Reaching for a small orange, she continued, "I know it is speculation—but I would not be surprised if she's not his mother."

"I think she is," Grissom said. "There's a resemblance there—you'll think this odd, but they have the same hands—I noticed hers. Nimble fingers, like his."

Sara yawned and handed half of the orange to Grissom. She said, "It will be interesting to see where she works."

"Do you think she works?"

"Oh, Gil, everyone works—at something." She took her plate to the sink, rinsed it, and reached for her glass.

Grissom said, "Shower—I'll clean up. I know you are tired—so am I."

By the time she was out of the shower, he was lying on the bed, sound asleep. Sara checked his phone, making sure he'd set an alarm. She set her own alarm and crawled between the sheets, realizing the few hours of sleep she'd had around midnight had not been enough.

Several hours later, Sara woke and found two notes; one from Grissom saying he'd see her after the conference. From Nick, a longer note: Crime had taken a vacation during the storm, quickly increasing afterwards so he had returned to the lab. He left a name and number for her to call; a Sergeant Daniels would pick her up, taking over for Detective Martin. He had added "She reminds me of you."

When Emily Daniels pulled to the curb where Sara waited, Sara's first thought was 'How can a teenager be on the police force?"

Introducing themselves, Sara's thought changed to 'How can a teenager be a sergeant?" as Emily added:

"I'm the newest sergeant on the force," saying this with a half smile on her face. "When Nick called and explained everything, I knew this had to be—be something special—for him to ask—and you worked together in Vegas." She gave a slight shrug, adding, "So here I am."

Sara nodded and got into the car.

Emily Daniels continued, saying, "I'm suggesting we talk to the mother—Roberta Burns—if that's what you think." She indicated an Ipad on the car seat. "That's the report on her—I've already looked at it."

Thinking the young sergeant might continue talking, Sara picked up the tablet and opened it. When the young woman said nothing, Sara asked her, "What do you think?"

Driving, Sergeant Daniels turned a corner before she answered. "Something is not right—wait until you read what's in there. She's never worked."

Her last words caused Sara to drop her jaws in an open-mouth gawk for several seconds remembering her words to Grissom. She asked, "Family money?"

Daniels gave a slight shake of her head, saying, "Read it; then we can talk."

The first page was a transcription of the first call, times, address, who let them in the house, condition of the subject as found. She scrolled to the second and third pages reading a rough draft of the autopsy report—height, weight, probable age, condition of teeth, contents of the stomach which included a chocolate liquid and brightly colored candy.

Her finger moved on the screen to the next report that listed the places—or as Sara quickly found—the place of residence for Roberta Burns. She said, "She's been living in the same house for forty years!"

Daniels nodded, saying, "It gets better."

Sara kept reading. Whoever had run the financials had been thorough, even providing a photograph of Roberta Burns taken by her bank. Listed at the top of a standard form were age, birthplace, residence address, and her profession as 'homemaker' which caused Sara to frown as she remembered the almost perfect condition of the house. Running a finger down the column of numbers, she located a monthly deposit for the sum of eight thousand dollars, repeated each month.

"Where does the money come from?" She asked, flipping past a dozen pages of bank records.

"Still working on that—the computer geek said it came from a trust."

Sara glanced at the young woman before returning her eyes to a list of medical visits and prescriptions covering a decade. Six months ago, Roberta Burns had gotten a prescription for sleeping pills.

Scrolling to another page, she found information on Roberta Burns' mother; a short obituary over twenty-five years old and an old tax form that had her occupation listed as 'housekeeper'.

Moving her finger quickly along the screen, Sara found Joseph Burns' name at the top of a standard morgue form. There were lines for information with XXXXXXXs in place of information. A birth date provided age but no passport, no driver's license, no employment history, no arrests, no school records.

"Nothing?" Sara asked, adding, "He worked at the marina—for several years."

"We knew that—so I called the marina accountant who said he sent a weekly paycheck to a trust fund. Roberta Burns' requested it because she said her son didn't know how to handle money."

Sara sat in thoughtful silence, scrolling across screens back and forth, for so long that it took her a minute to realize the car had stopped.

Daniels had pulled the vehicle to the curb. When Sara looked at her, she said, "We're almost at her house."

Sara said, "So, Roberta Burns' mother was a housekeeper. At fourteen, Roberta has a baby. And the same year, it appears they moved into this house. Who was the father?"

"Not Joe Smith," said Emily Daniels, her voice filled with cynicism. "Last page—no Joe Smith ever owned the house. The trust has owned it for forty years—it was a rental before that. We'll know who sold it to the trust."

Flipping to the last page, Sara found several lines about the Mavis Financial Trust. "Her mother's name was Mavis so that tells us nothing."

"The guys are working on it—takes a special wavier to get into it—actually find out who administers the trust."

Sara put the Ipad on the seat next to her and said, "Let's go see what Roberta Burns has to say about," pausing a few seconds, she added, "the night her son died."

The car rolled forward as Sergeant Daniels said, "And check with some of the neighbors."

The two women walked to the front door together; the sergeant rang the doorbell and when they heard footsteps, she whispered, "Will you take the lead?" Sara gave a nod just as the door opened.

Sara had seen Roberta Burns in person and in a photograph; Daniels had seen the photograph.

The woman who opened the door held little likeness to the photo or the person Sara had met previously.

The bright red hair was gone and in its place was a color of black that could only be described as the color of a raven's wing. It was brushed back in layers that made Sara think of a television star of the 80s. The face was pale, made up to appear colorless except for bright pink on her lips and a lighter shade painted in perfect circles on her cheeks. She was dressed in an expensive linen suit, a color somewhere between pink and orange which did nothing to flatter the wearer. The same facial features that gave the woman an undeterminable age were visible; Sara's thought went immediately to a child playing dress-up.

Quickly, Sara recovered from surprise and held out her hand to Roberta Burns, saying, "We have a few more question for you. It should take a few minutes."

Contrary to her previous action, she opened the door wide, not taking Sara's hand, but waving them inside.

"I knew you'd be back—some form to sign or something."

If possible, the room was brighter than before. Sunlight streamed through windows, brightly colored travel magazines covered the surface of a table. One of the chairs appeared to be a favorite so Sara and Sergeant Daniels took the sofa.

After expressing condolences and thanking her for agreeing to speak to them, Sara said, "We'd like to confirm a few details about your son."

A slight irritation crossed the woman's face before she said, "I've told the other man—the one at the morgue—he filled in a form."

"Yes," Sara said, keeping her voice low, giving a brief smile as she continued, "there was a computer glitch or—or something."

Something resembling a smile almost appeared on Roberta Burns' face. She said, "Sent the women, didn't they? That's what men always do."

Both women nodded before Sara asked, "Was there anything that happened—that you can remember—to Joey on the night he took those pills? Was he upset—did anything happen at his work?"

Surprised by the question, the woman gave another form of a smile and said, "The storm—I think it was the storm. The television channels kept flickering off and Joey didn't like that. I was watching the news and they were talking about the weather—all the trouble people were having."

"Was Joey watching the news?"

She looked toward one of the windows before turning back to face the two women on the sofa. She said, "Of course not; Joey had his own tv." Her hand came up in a dismissive motion; a change crossed her face, softened its features as she said, "Joey wasn't normal—never was—he didn't understand the news. He didn't understand much and—and he got those pills and took too many."

With an innate, instantaneous clarification of the woman's mind, Sara knew Roberta Burns saw them as women who would understand her circumstances.

Easily, she said, "I know it's been difficult for you—all you've done for him—you did for him. He took all your time, I'm sure." Sara saw a flicker of movement in Sergeant Daniels' face but the young woman said nothing. "It must be so difficult for you—have you thought about your future?"

For a moment, Sara thought she'd said too much.

A minute passed, then two as Roberta Burns looked at the windows and then at her lap where her fingers were running along a seam of the linen pants. Her voice was a whisper when she said, "I never wanted him—didn't even know I was pregnant until—until a few months before he was born, you know. I was a girl—had friends, rode my bike, went to school." The whisper changed into a harsh, sneering murmur as she continued, "They told me never to talk about it—and I haven't. Not one day—I didn't talk. He'd make sounds and I'd feed him—but I didn't talk—not the day he was born—not the last day he lived. I did what they said."

She lifted her head, seemingly unaware of what she'd said as her eyes brightened and the movement of her mouth indicated a smile. Her hand lifted in a backhanded wave. She said, "That's over—I have a future now. I have money—I'm going on one of those cruises I've seen on television." She shrugged her shoulders. "He took those sleeping pills and died. That's the end of it."

When Roberta Burns stood, indicating she was ending her conversation by turning her back to them and taking a few steps toward the windows, Sara glanced at Sergeant Daniels. They stayed seated. Minutes passed before the woman turned to look at them.

"That's all I'm saying."

Wanting to ask a dozen questions, Sara asked one, "Ms. Burns, who are 'they'?"

 _A/N: We appreciate hearing from those who take time to review and, after all this time, continue to be puzzled and curious by those who read but never comment...so take 15 seconds today to click and leave a word or two. Thanks._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: The answers! Enjoy!_

 **Hidden Answers**

 **Chapter 7**

Sara's question hung in the air as Roberta Burns turned toward the windows, back to face Sara and Sergeant Daniels, and back to the windows again. Sara exchanged glances with Emily, both sending the same message—they were not leaving until asked to leave.

Roberta Burns took a deep breath of air; her hand ran over the smooth surface of the dining table. For an instant, her shoulders dropped but then her back straightened; her shoulders lifted.

"I've never told anyone—from the time I was fourteen, I was told—drilled into me—not to talk about it. I put it out of my mind—I didn't think about it—it never happened. And—and then—he took those pills—swallowed all of them and now he's dead." She turned to face the two women on her sofa. "He should have died years ago—he should have never been born!" Her voice was harsh, hateful as she spit out each word. "And now—now I'm going to—to do things. I don't have him around now."

Agitated and angered, Roberta Burns balled her fist against the table. "They would show up once a year for years—coming in their fancy car, dressed in expensive suits. Finally, they stopped coming. Their money came—my mother made sure of that and then she did not spend much of it, but after she died, I spent some and I saved a lot of it. Joey—Joey—he didn't know—he—he never knew anything. Just dumb, he was. They would come in and smile at him like he was something special—he'd sit there like a dumb animal—couldn't even talk to them."

Suddenly, she laughed, a screech that was shrill and harsh, before saying, "You don't know—no one knows because I never talked. Well, Joey is dead and most of them must be dead—I haven't seen any of them in years but I got their money—yes," another bark of laughter along with a cunning glance, "I got a bank account no one knows about." She laughed again, an odd, scornful sound, and walked toward the sofa.

"I got cold drinks—would you like one?" Without waiting for an answer, Roberta Burns turned and walked into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she handed green colored bottles to Sara and the sergeant, holding out a round coaster for them to use. "I don't like plastic."

Neither woman refused the cold bottles; each murmured "thanks" as Roberta sat in the chair across from them.

"You might as well hear the story—no one around to tell me not to talk. All the other stuff that's happened, I don't guess any one cares now—and Joey's dead." She made a sound that was almost a sad moan. "My mother was smart for a housekeeper—not so smart to know what they were doing when it happened but smart enough to know about their money—and to keep things."

She shook her head, the dark hair in place like a helmet did not move. Picking up a cup, she sipped, made a face and placed it on the table. "Cold tea—never liked cold tea." She pointed to a magazine, saying, "I'm going on a cruise and then—maybe I'll go to Hawaii. I'll take a tour and see a volcano." She leaned back in the chair, her eyes narrowed, studying Sara and Sergeant Daniels.

The quietness that came was that before a thunderstorm; a prickly feeling of unseen forces. Not one of the three women moved for several minutes.

Roberta Burns appeared to settle into her chair before reaching over and opening a small drawer in the table, finding a thin, leather-covered book, and, after looking at it with a smile forming on her face, handing it to Sara. She said, "That's my money—safe from anyone looking at the trust they set up. No one ever asked when I took some from the regular bank account so I kept taking and putting it here. For twenty years—it was supposed to go to Joey but he didn't need it. What's a boy like him going to do with money like that?"

As she talked, Sara opened the book, never expecting to see the name of a bank she'd actually heard of—and certainly not expecting the account to be in Singapore. Flipping several pages, she found a small photo of a younger Roberta, a fingerprint, and the last entry; she almost gasped at the amount.

When Sara looked up, Roberta was still smiling. The woman said, "They paid—they paid my mother to stay quiet. They paid so no one else would know about a fourteen year old girl who had his baby." Her mouth curled in revulsion. "They paid because my mother kept things and they had me fixed—like a dog." Her hand waved toward the back of the house. "They paid because Joey looked just like him—only he was retarded and would never be like them. They did awful things—for years—and paid for it. Everyone knows what they did—but not back then."

Sara did not take her eyes from Roberta Burns but managed to nod, encouraging the woman to talk and, at the same time realized she had no idea how long they had been in the house. And neither she nor Emily had asked questions about the empty prescription container.

Carefully, Sara placed the bottle of water on the coaster. She asked, "Who did these awful things, Roberta?" Her voice was steady, concerned and quiet.

Roberta's hand came up in a dismissive wave as she said, "Everybody has heard about them now—but back then, it was all a secret—don't talk about it. Now, it's on the news—in movies, even. People started talking about what had happened—but not me. I never said one word. I looked after Joey." She laughed again, more jeer than laugh. "He never talked—that's what happens when he was never supposed to live. He stayed in his room and I stayed in mine—they said I had to feed him and I did. I kept him and his clothes clean—that's what they said to do with him and I did. I didn't talk and he didn't talk."

Roberta's eyes widened as Sara asked, "Who, Roberta? Who told you this? Can you name them?"

"Oh!" Surprise, then bewilderment flashed across her face, realizing she had not answered Sara's question.

As Roberta Burns spoke, the rush of revulsion hit Sara's chest like an iron fist as soon as two words were said. She heard Sergeant Daniels' intake of air a split second before her own breath seemed to fill her ears. She felt the pressure on her leg before realizing her own hand had clutched her thigh. Fury and rage literally blinded her vision for a few seconds.

Billions of dollars had been spent on silencing victims of abuse by clergy; Sara could not remember when she became aware of the stories, and she'd seen the movie based on the _Boston Globe_ 's report. She knew there were dioceses where bankruptcy had occurred due to claims and payment to victims.

Quickly, she pushed aside her own revulsion as Roberta Burns continued:

"The men from the church—the priests—the bishop. I thought you knew—now everyone knows what they did, but not back then. Not when Joey was born. It was all hushed up—my mother was a housekeeper for the bishop. She'd worked for him for years and I'd go there after school, stay in a back room and one day, he—the bishop came in where I was. He—he seemed nice, took me to the front of the house where he had a—a library, I think—and—this went on for days and days—a year, I guess, or longer. While my mother was cleaning toilets and making beds—he sat me on his lap—and he was the one—he was Joey's father. I was thirteen when he wanted me to touch his robes—he'd let me wrap this long scarf—that's not the official word for it, but it was gold and white, like silk, I guess—while he—while he did things to me—I didn't know what he was doing." Her voice changed, softened. "He told me I was special—and I think—for a while, I liked what he did." She made a scornful, mocking sound before saying, "I was a good girl. I was a good student. I was polite to everyone. Not like now when girls hear and see things on television—I didn't know that's how you had a baby. I didn't know a girl got pregnant that way. I didn't know…"

Sara was suddenly overwhelmed by what she was hearing; standing, she moved toward the windows. At the same moment, Emily Daniels leaned over to Roberta and took her hands, murmuring words so quietly that Sara could not hear what was said.

She opened one of the windows, surprised to find the light had diminished; she could see outlines against street lights and the glow of sunset to the west.

The two women's voice drifted, floating as quietly as fog, to her ears, so low she could understand none of it. Minutes passed—ten, fifteen minutes—before Daniels touched the older woman's arm, giving several pats with her hand, moving it to Roberta's back, as she stood.

A slight tilt of the sergeant's head gave Sara the message that it was time to leave and they walked to the front door together, leaving Roberta Burns sitting in her chair, reaching for one of her magazines.

Once outside, the chill of night surprised both women as they walked toward the car. Hearing a muffled sound behind her, Sara turned to see Daniels leaning on the white gate post. Holding onto the post, Sara realized, to keep herself upright. Sara stepped back, grabbed the young woman's arm, and helped her to the curb, in front of the vehicle.

Emily Daniels dropped her head and slowly banged her forehead against her knees.

Sara, sitting next to her, placed a hand on her back, her palm rubbing back and forth, remembering times when she'd wanted to bang her own head into something—and knees worked better than a wall.

A few minutes passed before Emily said, "That was too much for me, I think."

"Me too," Sara said.

Another minute passed before Emily said, "You're pregnant, right? You—the way you touched your stomach standing at the window. It must have been hard to hear all that—what was done to that poor girl."

"Yes and yes. I cannot imagine—at fourteen." After a moment, Sara asked, "What did you say to her?"

"I asked her what her mother kept and if she'd given him any of her meds. Her mother kept the clothes Roberta wore—her underwear, her dress. She was horrified when I asked about the pills—said her mother had wanted to do that years ago and she threatened to call the police. She was seventeen at the time."

"What happened to the meds—from the bottle we found?"

Emily smiled, shaking her head. "She keeps them in another container—offered to show it to us." A brief smile as a flash of satisfaction showed in her eyes, she said, "She didn't kill him." Taking a deep breath, she added, "but she's glad he's gone."

"Monsters making a monster," Sara said, nodding her head back toward the house.

"I feel sorry for her—for both of them."

"She had the money," Sara said, still puzzled by what she'd heard. "Her mother could have raised the child—Roberta could have gotten treatment, even forty years ago." She made a low groan as she realized the kind of 'treatment' provided to a child who witnessed a father's death at the hands of the mother. Shaking her head, she said, "They never tried to get him help, no testing, no school—didn't even talk to him."

Emily said, "That was part of what she said—it was punishment for her sin—what the bishop—and then the priests told her—she kept the child and every day lived with her sin. She did—and ignored him. Hard to believe."

In the muted light, Sara saw the grimace form on Emily's face as the young woman said, "I'm not religious—and I'm happy about that right now."

"Does this make you want to stop?"

When the younger woman looked puzzled, Sara added, "Stop being a cop?"

"Oh, no—I love my job!"

Sara smiled at her eagerness. "Good."

 _A/N: Thanks for reading...a few more chapters to this one!_


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N:** The last chapter to this story! Thank you for staying with us as we wrote this one "torn from the headlines"- enjoy!_

 **Hidden Answers**

 **Chapter 8**

Before leaving the neighborhood, Sara and Sergeant Daniels knocked on four doors before finding a woman who had lived on the street, in the same block, all of her life and she knew Roberta Burns by name.

Immediately, the woman said, "Is this about the boy? I saw all the vehicles on the street the night of the storm. One of the neighbors said he died—killed himself by taking an overdose."

Very quickly, they established the woman did not know Roberta or Joey except to wave in a neighborly manner but she did have an abundance of accumulated knowledge.

"I don't remember seeing the boy or Roberta when I was growing up—I don't think I knew a child lived there for years," she said. "Then one day, he showed up—Joey, right? I guess we thought—or maybe Roberta told someone—that he'd been living somewhere else but he was grown before I knew he was around and that was about twenty years ago." A thoughtful look appeared on her face as she said, "The older woman died—Roberta's mother—and after that the boy showed up."

Sara asked, "Did you know the older woman? Roberta's mother?"

"Only like I know Roberta—to wave at her if she was outside. They didn't do Halloween—you know, when I was a kid we'd go to the houses with porch lights on and theirs was never on." A frown crossed her face, as she said, "And I don't remember any holidays—no lights at Christmas, no flag flying in July."

"Did you ever interact with Joey?" Sergeant Daniels asked.

The woman leaned against the door, arms crossed, remaining quiet for several minutes. She said, "We all—the other neighbors—knew there was something wrong with him. You could see it—the way he walked, the way he didn't react to anything. But, no, I never actually interacted with him. I've seen him at the bus stop in the past two-three years—he'd be in the front yard or on the porch—but he never reacted to anyone or anything. Just in his own world, I think."

Shifting her stance so she could see the Burns house, she said, "Did he kill himself? Is that why you're here? Or—or he didn't kill himself?"

"We are here checking his background," Sara said.

The neighbor closed her eyes, shaking her head, as she said, "He must have lived a pretty miserable life."

Emily Daniels had been taking notes; she stopped writing and asked, "Why do you think that?"

Shuddering her shoulders as if she was shivering, the woman said, "Not much goes on in that house. No one visits—it's been years since I've seen a car there. Roberta goes out occasionally—she had the house renovated several years ago and that's the biggest thing that's happened around that house in the five decades I've lived here." Shaking her head again, she continued, "Imagine how lonely he was."

"Did you think he could hear?" Sara asked.

Again, the woman appeared thoughtful for a few minutes before saying, "He made noises, not words, but now that you say it, I don't think he could hear. I don't remember that he noticed the air traffic—and we get a lot of that—but," she shook her head. "I never paid much attention."

"Would anyone else know him? Or Roberta?" asked Sara.

"No, everyone else is new to the street—in the past five years or so. And like I said, no one has ever gotten to know her—them."

# # #

Nick Stokes was waiting when Grissom walked out of the conference center. He said, "I've got the name of the doctor who prescribed the sleeping meds for Joey Burns—and he agreed to talk after his clinic closed."

They drove to a strip mall where they found the clinic tucked between a nail shop and an empty storefront where windows advertised a mattress store. Nick rapped knuckles on the locked glass door and held his ID up when a middle-age dark-haired woman appeared in the hallway. Inside, the lobby was the standard chair-lined doctor's waiting room and, surprising Grissom, appeared to be child-friendly. Small chairs were grouped around a round table where paper and crayons were stacked neatly in the center. The walls, eye-level to a young child, were papered with crayons drawings.

With a quick glance, as Nick introduced them, Grissom saw drawings of colorful scenes, houses, boats, airplanes, stick figures playing. As they walked along the hallway, he noticed several of the drawings were hanging higher, level with his eyes. These were crayon drawings too but different; pausing to look closely, he took a step away.

There were four; each one on letter-size paper and appeared to be a fine-lined drawing of a city scene, done in black and grey colors using multiple lines to create details. Not one line touched another. He took another step back in the narrow hallway and realized the drawings should be hanging in a gallery—or at least a larger space—to appreciate the artist's work.

"Grissom?" Nick's voice broke into his thoughts.

Grissom turned and saw a tall man wearing green scrubs coming toward him. Extending his hand, he said, "Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Garcia."

As the man shook his hand, he said, "You like the art work?"

"Yes," said Grissom, adding with a smile, "All originals, I think."

The doctor's head tipped toward the ones Grissom had studied. "You're coming to ask about Joey Burns—he did those."

His comment caused Nick to walk back to the drawings. He said, "Joey did these?"

Dr. Garcia nodded. "I saw him three times and each time he drew one of those. The last time, he brought that one and drew the next one while here. He was talented."

Nick said, "That's why we've come—to ask about Joey."

"Come into my office—I have his file. Not much, but it might help you."

The office was, as Grissom had observed from too many other visits to physician offices, stacked with books, professional journals, and files, but two chairs sat in front of the desk, waiting. Once they were seated, Dr. Garcia opened a folder, turned it around, and slid it across his desk.

"I've seen Joey four times in five years—two times for ear infections, once for flu, and, the last time, because he was having trouble sleeping."

"Did his mother come with him?" Grissom asked.

"Yes—Joey did not—could not talk."

Grissom again, "What did you think of his mother?"

For a long minute, the physician's face did not change as he appeared to look beyond Grissom and Nick. "I try not to think of his mother—especially after I heard of his death. She took care of his physical needs—brought him to the doctor when he was sick—basic needs—fed, bathed, clothed. He was always clean when I saw him but he couldn't talk—she told me he'd suffered brain damage at birth and—and I had no reason to doubt that. He was small for his age, appeared younger—the first time I saw him, I would have thought he was eighteen or nineteen instead of late thirties. In every other way, he was healthy."

Nick asked, "Did you prescribe the sleeping prescription?"

"I did." Dr. Garcia looked from Nick to Grissom and back to Nick, shaking his head. "His mother said Joey had nights when he couldn't sleep and she'd taken the same med with good results. So—so I prescribed it." His head dropped and he picked up a pen, tapping it on the desk for a moment before he added, "I don't like being responsible for his death."

"That's a harsh way of thinking," Nick said.

The doctor nodded, seeming to agree, as he said, "I should have suggested others ways—taking a walk or drinking something—but she said she'd tried melatonin with no good results so I gave him the prescription. I guess I felt sorry for both of them—and a good night's sleep generally helps anyone."

"What was wrong with him? Was he deaf?" Grissom asked and then waved his hand toward the hallway. "He could draw—those show a remarkable talent. He worked at the marina—that's where I saw him. He always seemed—so intent on what he was doing."

"He wasn't deaf," the physician said; his voice low and tight. He leaned forward; his mouth tightened as he said, "He could hear—he didn't know how to process sounds—language made no sense to him." Another pause, before he said, "Joey was born to a—a woman who saw whatever was wrong with him as a curse from God—as if she was living in a hut in a fourth world country. She knew guilt and nothing about compassion or kindness—and did nothing to help him receive help with his disability or be trained or taught. God knows how she raised him."

The doctor turned, opening a small refrigerator behind his chair, and placed a bottle of water on his desk. "Would you like water? It's all I have to offer."

Both men declined, and from long experience, remained silent, knowing a person was more likely to speak when confronted with their silence.

The physician did not disappoint. He said, "I never saw him when he was young—but I suspect Kaspar Hauser syndrome—something similar. If one doesn't learn language by about age twelve, then the brain has missed its chance." His shoulders lifted, as if indicating his lack of knowledge.

Nick asked, "Talking?"

"Well, yes. The concept of it. Language—how sounds can equal a thing or an action, an idea. Perhaps it all started from actual brain damage at birth—and left alone or with little stimulation, he never developed."

"Do you think he understood some things?" asked Grissom, again pointing his hand in the direction of the drawings.

Dr. Garcia nodded, "I believe he did. Look at those drawings."

# # #

Sometime around midnight, Nick, Sara and Grissom returned to the condo. Conversations and notes had been shared; thoughts expressed, and, in the end, no charges would be filed in the death of Joey Burns. His mother would go on her cruise, probably see volcanoes in Hawaii, and move on with life.

Inside, Nick took off his shoes, mumbled something about sleep, and ambled into his bedroom on the right side of the kitchen. The door closed behind him.

Sara wanted a shower. As she walked across the living room, Grissom headed into the kitchen, appearing in the bedroom a few minutes later with two pears and a carton of yogurt.

He said, "Food," holding out both hands.

"Shower first—then eat." She peeled her shirt over her head and kicked off her shoes.

Still holding the food, Grissom said, "It's a big shower." A hint of liveliness tinged his voice.

Sara grinned and tilted her head in silent agreement with his unstated request.

The guest bathroom, large with a glass-walled-walk-in shower, flooded with light when Grissom flipped a switch. By the time Sara turned on the water, her clothes had been left in a ragged trail from bedroom to bathroom. Grissom followed.

As water flowed, warming skin with its gentle stream, one reached for the other, hands touching as an intimate message was sent and received. His mouth was firm and warm on hers, gently, patiently stirring desire. The steady, irresistible rise of passion was a relief, each knowing this was something understood, trusted, willingly given and received.

There was no mistaking an act of love, generous, selfless, sweet, as Grissom managed to shampoo Sara's hair while she kept arms around his neck and lips attached to his. As his hands ran gently across her back, he felt her breath catch as he touched and caressed and pressed her closer.

His mouth on hers was gentle, persuasive, a slow, simmering warmth that unknotted tension and loosened her bones until she felt like she was melting. His hands were on her face, fingers skimming over her cheeks, trailing to her throat.

A breathless, "Hurry" as she arched into him, pulling him into her body.

In that lightening quick move that took them both by surprise, he was inside her as she rose to him.

No one else, he thought, had ever unlocked him the way this woman did. He felt her rise, an arch of welcome; he heard her quiet moan merge with his as she crested in a passionate response to his mouth crushing against hers.

Warm water showered over their shoulders as the geyser of orgasm ripped through Sara, surging from her brain to the base of her spine; so strong that she might have melted boneless to the floor if she had not been holding her husband's water-slicked shoulders.

He managed to hold on to her, his mouth fused to hers, as pleasure careened through him, blurred his vision, leaving him somewhat dazed as they slid to the built-in bench.

Grissom murmured a "Thank you to whoever thought of this" as he managed to hold Sara and find a way to keep them together.

Sprawled over him, he felt Sara's smile against his neck.

"Well, I won't have to wash the bed sheets again."

Brushing a lock of wet hair away from her face, Grissom said, "We need a bigger shower, don't we. And a bench."

She laughed, shifting so she straddled him, stretching and lifting her face to the water falling from the shower head. Feeling his hand on her abdomen, she placed her hand over his.

"Something is growing here, dear," he whispered. "Definitely growing."

Sara laughed again, turning back to him and leaning to kiss him. She said, "I can sleep now. And then, tomorrow, we get on our boat and go home where I'm going to grow tomatoes for the next year." As he chuckled, she took his hand, helping him to stand, as she got her footing. She said, "Let me soap you up."

Shaking his head, Grissom grinned, saying, "No, rinse and—I'll do my own soaping up, dear." He kept his hand somewhere on her body as she turned in the shower, letting water cascade along her back and across her shoulders until rivulets were transformed into small waterfalls.

As she left the shower, Grissom asked, "Do we have tomato plants at the house?"

Sara laughed. "No, but I'm getting some."

# # #

As Sara and Grissom left San Diego the next day, Sara made a declaration. "I've seen so much human evil that I should not be surprised, but I am. Men killed over a few hundred dollars or a million dollars, women killed because—because they are women. Children killed because they are children—or abused because they have no say in their lives. It never makes sense." Pausing for a breath, she continued, "I'm finished with it—this was my last one. I really am going to grow tomatoes and save turtles and be a mom to our children."

When Grissom made no response, she turned to him, took his hand, and squeezed it.

"Well?" she finally asked.

Smiling, he said, "Do you need me to approve?"

With a quiet laugh, she said, "You've already made that decision, haven't you?"

# # #

…Months later, as expected, a baby girl arrived two weeks before her due date, but not quickly, giving friends time to gather for the actual birth.

While Jim Brass took the soon-to-be-father for dinner, Catherine Willows remained with the laboring mother. Not intense labor, not particularly painful, Sara ate ice chips and listened to Catherine's discourse on parenting, not all of it serious but it was wide-ranging.

During one brief pause for breath, before Catherine could form her next words, Sara managed to say, "We're planning to have another one."

Her friend's mouth dropped open; her eyes widened in surprise, and for a few moments, Catherine was unable to speak.

Sara laughed, saying, "We have a male embryo ready and waiting. As soon as my doctor says the time is right—I'm going to do it again."

Catherine gaped, totally at a loss for words.

Sara smiled briefly before an uncomfortable cramp twisted around her belly which gave Catherine time to recover.

"You haven't had this one, Sara! And you—you—have you talked to Gil about this?"

The pain subsided and Sara took several deep breaths before saying, "Of course, it was his idea—I thought we'd try for twins the first time, but the physician suggested two pregnancies. So…"

The door opened and the men returned, bringing in a faint aroma of Italian food, and the conversation turned to other topics until, in due time, Sara and Gil Grissom became parents to a baby girl, named Elizabeth, who favored her mother in every way except for her bright blue eyes that would never change color.

# # #

…Eighteen months later, as Sara had predicted, she had a second child, a baby boy who inherited from his father a cleft chin, a head of curly hair, and cerulean blue eyes. With each passing day, friends and strangers noticed the remarkable similarity in father and son just as they noticed the likeness in mother and daughter.

The two children, Elizabeth and William, changed their parents' lives from a scholarly, somewhat predictable lifestyle to one of delightful giggles and squeals of wonder, of splashing in waves and watching clouds, of long-told stories and quirky rhymes and silly songs, of counting and coloring books, of the beautiful sounds of nature and man and the age-old languages of life forms of earth.

The End

 _ **A/N:** Again, thank you for reading! Some of you have become dear friends, supporting our efforts by your encouraging comments. Thank you! We're going to take a break-call it 'spring break'-and hope to be back with another story of GSR in the future. Keep reading CSI and GSR stories. Keep posting your comments/reviews because all of us in fanfiction write for enjoyment; our only reward are your comments!_

 _Let's do what we can to keep GSR - and the best series on television - alive and strong even in reruns!_


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